


Set Me Free

by fillorianravenclaw



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Fluff, Getting Together, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Moving, Nightmares, POV Alternating, Sibling Bonding, Starting Over, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:15:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21685108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fillorianravenclaw/pseuds/fillorianravenclaw
Summary: Mandy’s smiling at Mickey in what appears to be an attempt at something reassuring, and the feeling of pride comes back full force. Not that he voices such feelings, he’s Mickey Milkovich for fuck’s sake. He settles for an eye roll and a scowl, hoping that his trembling hand in the space between them conveys his excitement and terror in a much less explicit way.Or; Mickey and Mandy move to a new town and Mickey begins the process of healing, but also finds himself falling in love along the way.
Relationships: Fiona Gallagher & Ian Gallagher, Fiona Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher & Lip Gallagher, Ian Gallagher & Mandy Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Lip Gallagher/Mandy Milkovich, Mandy Milkovich & Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	1. leaving

There’s no remorse as Mickey steps out of the house. The door slams shut behind him and he can’t even bring himself to look back, so instead he focuses his eyes on Mandy and her grim smile. He shudders as he gets in the taxi, feeling like a heavy weight has been removed from his shoulders. He knows he’s never coming back.

It had been a last minute decision, moving out, and even more of a last minute decision to bring Mandy with him. Terry had just gone back to prison and Mickey had breathed out that sigh of relief that was all too familiar to him, feeling once again that he was in control of his life. A friend of his - Mickey rolls his eyes internally at that, he’s never _actually_ had a ‘friend’ before - had told him about a small, cheap apartment that he was selling downstate. And Mickey, because he was drunk and not in his right mind, had said yes. He’s more than a little surprised that he doesn’t regret this decision yet, and is starting to think that maybe it’s the best thing he’s done.

Both he and Mandy had resigned themselves to the fate of the Southside - Mickey would either be in juvie or dead before he was 30 and Mandy would be pregnant. It wasn’t like there was anything either of them could have done; growing up in a house with Terry Milkovich they had quickly learnt to fend for themselves and trust no one, so they weren’t even inclined to turn to each other. Yet when Mickey had walked in on Mandy with blood running down her face and a mottled blue bruise on her cheek just two days ago, he hadn’t even thought twice. Surprisingly, she hadn’t resisted.

Mickey turns to look at Mandy now, as the car pulls away. He takes in her stiff posture and her trembling lip, notices the way her hands grip the edge of the seat and how she’s holding her head up, chin jutting out as if to say; _Look at me Terry, I’m finally doing it, I’m finally leaving_. An odd, unfamiliar feeling courses through Mickey, something he doesn’t think he’s felt before, something similar to pride.

Mickey thinks about all those times when he’d seen Terry leaving Mandy’s bedroom, that twisted smirk naturally set in place. He’d known. It wasn’t all that hard to piece together, but even then - even when it had been laid out in front of him invitingly, he hadn’t thought to even open his mouth. Mickey tells himself that it’s fair, that it’s not like she did anything when it was his turn - when he was half-conscious on the sofa from the beatings, or when Terry had had him by the throat in the living room screaming into his face. But the feeling of guilt still doesn’t go away, even if he’d never say it out loud, he knows that by standing by and letting it happen he’s just as bad as Terry himself.

Mandy’s smiling at Mickey now, in what appears to be an attempt at something reassuring, and the feeling of pride comes back full force. Not that he voices such feelings, he’s Mickey Milkovich for fuck’s sake. He settles for an eye roll and a scowl, hoping that his trembling hand in the space between them conveys his excitement and terror in a much less explicit way, one which only she would understand.

-

Mandy thinks that maybe she’s dreaming. It’s a pretty corny thing to think but it’s quite possibly the only answer for the situation she’s in.

When Mickey had dragged her from the bathroom where she’d been crouched in a pool of her own blood Mandy had expected something along the lines of ‘ _What the fuck’s wrong with you, Mandy?’_ or _‘If you’re going to get yourself fucked up like that, learn to fucking fight better._ ’. She hadn’t been expecting the blunt ‘ _You’re coming with me when I leave_ ’ that she’d recieved. Nor the ‘I _don’t want you staying here any longer_ ’ that had followed soon after. Or even the way he hadn’t shoved her off or jerked away when she’d pulled him into a hug, gasping and sobbing into his shoulder, soaking his shirt with blood and tears. It had been bittersweet, and Mandy knows it took a lot just for him to say those words.

Mickey’s watching her now out of the corner of his eye as they pass a road sign that says Chicago going in the opposite direction and it makes her feel like maybe she should say something to break the tense silence.

“We’re not coming back, are we?” Her voice sounds vulnerable and scared but she knows she can’t hide that from Mickey at this point. She averts her eyes as he startles at the sound of her voice.

It’s hard to know with Mickey whether or not he’ll lash out at you or if you’ll chance on one of those rare moments when he sounds like he actually cares. She’s thankful that it’s the latter.

“No. Never.” It’s a softly spoken promise that reassures something deep inside of her that at least she’s not alone in this - at least they’re together.

“Good.” She says, and then, because she can’t help herself and she’s nervous and giggly and high on the thrill of an adventure, she grins and laughs, eyes sparkling as she glances up at her older brother. It’s a shock to find that he’s already smiling right back at her, and Mandy knows she can count on one hand the amount of times she’s seen Mickey smile. It gives her the certainty that they must be doing the right thing.


	2. please, don't bite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Ian will be in the next chapter, I just had to set the story up first! :)

_“Get off me! Stop!”_

_The dulled screeches startle an 11 year old Mickey from his sleep. He recognises Mandy’s voice immediately and frowns in a sleep-weary confusion. What’s she doing up at this time? He turns over, thinking maybe he’ll be able to fall back to sleep quickly, but he knows it’s pointless - he’s never been any good at getting to sleep in the first place, especially in a house like their’s._

_“Ow!”_

_The sound sends a small pang of worry through Mickey and he sits up, wondering whether it would be a bad idea to get up and see what is going on. The Milkovich house is a terrifying place to be but in the dark the shadows seem all-consuming and Mickey can never tell where the darkness ends._

_He moves to his door, listening to what sounds like his dad’s voice saying something._

_“You’re jus’ like your mother…,” His words are slurred and his voice too loud in the empty silence, most likely the effects of alcohol, “Good for nothin’... an’ you can’t even treat your own father with some fuckin’ respect…”_

_Mickey gives in to his internal battle and opens his door, creeping through the house to where the conversation is coming from. The front door is wide open, letting the bitter October breeze sweep through the already cold house._

_Mandy and their father stand on the doorstep, Terry’s hands wrapped in an iron grip around her wrists, holding her in place as she struggles to get out of his grasp._

_“Mandy?” Mickey mumbles from where he’s stood, vulnerable, in the doorway. Both heads snap up at once and his dad’s dark scowl deepens._

_“The fuck are you doin’?”_

_“You woke me up.” Mickey states bluntly, watching as his father drops Mandy’s wrists slowly and diverts his attention to him. Mandy backs away so she’s standing beside Mickey and Mickey watches out of the corner of his eye as she sniffles and rubs her wrists silently._

_“I did, did I?” The look on his father’s face is familiar: he’s drunk, probably high as well and looking for a fight. Mickey chooses not to answer his question, just gives a slight shrug._

_“Fucking answer me!”_

_“Yes.” Because he knows what would happen if he didn’t do what his father said. Apparently his answer isn’t any better though._

_“Ha! You’re just like her,” his father growls, “Both of you, ungrateful bitches!”_

_Mickey’s eyes flicker from his father to his sister, only to realise that she’s backed away into the safety of the house - not that it has ever proved to be any safer. He doesn’t say anything._

_“Answer me you fucking pussy!”_

_More than anything, he wants to, he wants to fight back, wants to scream in his father’s face, wants to switch their positions so that Terry is the one who’s scared. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say._

_He takes a quivering step back, hoping Terry won’t notice. He does._

_“Fucking come back here, you coward!” And then Terry’s in his face, screaming. “The fuck’s wrong with you? Can’t stand up for yourself, huh?”_

_Mickey flinches away from the stench of alcohol on Terry’s breath and the spit flying from his mouth. He trembles under his father’s ice cold glare._

_“I’ll teach ya how to fucking stand up for yourself!”_

_For some reason, whatever Mickey was expecting, it wasn’t the fist that collided with the side of his face sending his small body stumbling backwards, reeling from the force of the drunken blow. Mickey clutches the side of his face in pain, trying to force his body to regain it’s sense of balance. A quiet sob escapes his lips._

_“Are you cryin’, son?” Mickey can’t look up into his dad’s face, can’t let him see that he has tears in his eyes. He stares at his feet, shakes his head frantically._

_“Good.” The soft, menacing growl is what really terrifies Mickey, even more so than when he screams in his face. “Because Milkoviches don’t cry.”_

_Mickey hopes that’s the end of it and that he can go back to sleep now. Only he knows better than that, knows it’s only over when Terry says so, and that’s usually when one of them is unconscious. Two firm hands grasp the front of his top. Mickey feels his too small, too weak body being practically thrown backwards into the door. He doesn’t feel the pain at first, only hears a large crack - whether from the door or from his head he doesn’t know._

_When he and Mandy leave for school the next day they both pretend they don’t notice the new dent in the door, or the crimson colour that now stains it._

______

The door to their apartment is plain and clean, void of any bloodstains or dents in its surface. Mickey stares at it, thinking of what people used to think when they approached the Milkovich house and were greeted by a door covered in blood. It wasn’t like it was a misconception or anything - the inside of the house was even worse in terms of damage - but Mickey felt it had represented all the Milkoviches stood for. Later, two bullet holes had joined the dent, but Mickey didn’t like to think about how they got there.

“It’s different, huh?”

Mickey jumps, heart racing, muscles immediately tensing, hands already curled into fists. “Fuck,” He breathes out when he sees Mandy’s apologetic face.

“Shit, sorry,” She mutters, eyeing the floor guiltily. “I didn’t mean-”

“Whatever.” He shakes his head, eyes once again locked on the door. “Yeah, it’s fucking different.”

“You gonna stand here all day, then?” Mandy inquires. “You’re gonna have to open the door eventually.”

Mickey rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh, knowing she’ll find it hilarious if he asks her to open the door for him. Truth is he doesn’t think he has the strength to do it himself - closing the Milkovich door behind him was one thing, but opening this terrifying new one is entirely different.

“What?” Mandy aks.

“You can do it.”

Mandy lets out a huff of questioning laughter, her smile teasing as she looks over to Mickey.

“Huh?”

“You heard me, just open the fucking door,” Mickey snaps impatiently, shifting from one foot to the other and hating the feeling of fear and embarrassment inside him.

Mandy lifts her hands in the air in mock surrender and raises her eyebrows at him. “Alright, alright.”

The hallway is silent as Mandy slips the key in the lock and shoves open the door, tugging her bags in with her. It’s not surprising how little stuff they had to bring with them. Mickey follows her silently into the apartment, closing the door softly behind them.

Mickey hadn’t been expecting something grand and luxurious, but compared to the Milkovich house it’s just that. The apartment is small - Mickey can see all the rooms just from where he’s standing in the doorway - but it’s not like they needed anything big anyway. It’s not in great condition, there’s a cold breeze running through the house and Mickey can see that one of the doors to one of the rooms is missing, but he knows that it’s just right.

“We did it, Mickey,” Mandy whispers softly from beside him. He turns to see a wide grin splitting her face, her eyes bright and shining with something that looks suspiciously like tears. He knows he should do something - show her some kind of affection, hug her even. But he can’t. He just nods his head briefly, eyes darting away from her’s to focus on something that hurts less.

“Not yet,” He mutters, “We ain’t fuckin’ done it yet.”

______

It happens in the early hours of the morning - 2:46 to be exact. When Mandy wakes to a scream she almost brushes it off in her half-asleep state, thinking she’s back in that house and it’s not really anything new. But then she remembers. It’s even worse when she comes to her senses and recognises that it’s Mickey.

She’s known for a while that Terry fucked him up in ways that he couldn’t have done to her - and vice versa. She’s also known for a while that while Mickey may act strong and unbothered, inside he’s like a broken system, still trying to pretend that nothing’s wrong. The first night, almost three years ago, that he’d woken Mandy with nightmares she’d stood outside his room, peeking through the gap in his door, too scared to go in. She’d stood there for what had seemed like hours until he calmed down, while nobody else in the house had acknowledged him.

Now, she’s on her feet almost immediately, rushing blindly through the unfamiliar room in the darkness and into her brother’s room. It’s pitch black, but she can still make out the silhouette of his thrashing body; and if that weren’t enough, his cries would have been.

“Don’t- No- Don’t-” Mandy feels intrusive listening to the garbled cries coming from her brother.

“Mickey,” She whispers softly, not wanting to startle him too badly. “Mickey c’mon.”

“Don’t! Please, don’t! Get off him!”

The sound of the tears in her brother’s voice is like an electrical shock sent through her. Mickey doesn’t cry.

“Mickey.” She knows her voice sounds desperate and scared, but that’s just what she is; scared - not used to Mickey being the weaker one. “Mickey, wake up.”

It’s a bad idea and Mandy knows it, but before she can think it through properly she’s placing a firm hand on his shoulder and shaking him awake.

It’s scary how quickly he jolts awake, like she’d just dropped a bucket of ice cold water over his head, fists flying. The blow is uncoordinated and sloppy, but it’s still painful when he lands it on her shoulder, almost sending her off the edge of the bed. She should’ve expected that.

“Fuck, Mickey!” Mandy cries, bringing a hand up to where he hit her. Mickey’s panting heavily into the silence, breathing too fast for it to be normal. Not knowing what to say, she reaches over and turns his bedside light on, illuminating the room and exposing her brother’s hunched over figure. Mandy can’t stop the small intake of breath she makes when he looks up, blinking into the light, face painted with lines of tears.

“Fuck.” Is all Mickey says when he seems to regain his senses. Mandy hates the way he frantically presses his palms into his eyes to stop the tears, breathing out a long shaky exhale.

“Mick-”

“What?!” It’s a single harsh word but it makes Mandy crack - it’s almost as if she can see him putting his defenses back up and shutting the door in her face. She’s sick and tired of being treated like she doesn’t matter to him. Clearly it was stupid of her to think that moving away would mean it would be any different.

“I’m not him, Mickey! For fuck’s sake, stop treating me like I’m Terry! Let me in, ok?!” She cries out, hating the way he flinches at the volume and then again at the name. She speaks more softly when she continues. “You can’t keep pretending like nothing’s happened, ok? You were fucking screaming, Mickey. You can’t keep this up, you- you’re going to ruin yourself.”

His blue eyes close, letting the tears slip over his eyelashes. Mandy desperately wants to reach out and shake him, tell him it’s ok, that they’re far away from Terry now, that he’s allowed to let his emotions out, but neither of them deal well with that kind of affection so she stops herself. Mickey’s already shaking his head.

“Get the fuck out.”

It’s always been his go-to reaction and Mandy knows it, but it doesn’t stop it from stinging.

“God fucking damnit Mickey, I’m trying to help!”

“Why are you acting like all of a sudden we care about each other? We never fucking have in the past!” He yells, voice cracking as he says it and chest heaving with the effort of holding back so many tears.

“Yes we have, asshole, and you know it. You’ve fucking blinded yourself to any emotion except anger so you don’t even recognise that I fucking love you, Mickey!” She’s not entirely sure why she says it, not that it isn’t true, but she would never have said it at any other time. Something about Mickey’s cold, angry blue eyes pushed her over the edge.

Somehow the words don’t help, however, instead making Mickey practically curl in on himself, heaving out a sob that sounds like he’s dangerously close to a full-blown breakdown.

“I was there too!” She cries, anything to make him listen to her and understand. “It’s not like Terry hated me any less, Mickey, stop being so fucking selfish!”

It makes her feel an overwhelming sense of guilt saying it, because she knows it’s not at all true. Terry had always picked on Mickey the most, for reasons unknown to her, and even when it was her turn, most of the time Mickey found a way to take the fall for her.

But it seems to have finally got Mickey’s full attention, because he’s staring straight at her, blue eyes boring into her’s.

“I think-”

“Mandy, I’m gay.”

Oh. _Oh_. And it’s like someone finally flicked on a light switch in a pitch black house, because suddenly everything makes sense. Mandy lets out a quiet sob as she watches Mickey lean forward, blue eyes pleading desperately for acceptance.

“Fuck, Mickey..” It feels like the only two words that accurately describe the situation.

She’s hoping he’ll let out a laugh and agree that this whole thing is messed up. He doesn’t. He brings his hands up to cover his face, and Mandy watches helplessly as his whole body starts quivering with sobs.

“No, stop! It’s ok, I don’t mind!” She says desperately, hating how helpless she feels. “I don’t care who you fucking screw!”

Her whole body feels numb, like this conversation is happening with someone else, because it’s all so unexpected and yet predictable at the same time. After growing up in the house she did, Mandy knows better than to think that that’s the end of the story and there’s nothing more to it, but she isn’t going to push - not anymore than she already has.

When Mickey’s crying has quietened slightly, Mandy reaches out a hand, not close enough to touch him, but close enough for him to know that she’s still there.

“Mickey, I think you should get some help..” She says softly into the demanding silence.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time - so long that she thinks maybe she’ll have to repeat herself. Then he huffs out a short, slightly patronizing laugh.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Mandy knows the emotions reflected in Mickey’s eyes all too well, the guarded, angry look with a hint of fear.

“It’s just a suggestion,” she says, treading carefully, “but I think you should look into therapy.”

She feels him tense, eyes following the the way his hands curl naturally into fists, and whispers, “Please, Mickey.”

The silence is even longer this time and all the more deafening, but Mandy knows without a doubt that he heard every word.

“No.” He spits the word out into the empty void.

Mandy knows she should back down at that, knows it’ll make the situation worse if she continues, but she’s never been one to listen to the voice in her head when it’s telling her to stop.

“Just- Mickey, can’t you at least think about it?” She pleads. “I’ve looked into it and I’m gonna go, you-”

“No, Mandy, get the fuck out.”

Mandy flinches at the exhausted tone, wanting to plead her case more, but knowing her brother’s going to either punch her in the face or break down in tears again if she tries to continue.

“Ok.” She says, trying to keep the stubborn tone out of her voice. She stands up from the bed, noting the way Mickey visibly relaxes, but doesn’t leave. “Whatever. I’m just trying to help, alright, I am your fucking sister-”

“Fuck. Off.”

It’s an obvious end to the conversation. She turns and leaves without another word, desperately trying to hold back the overflowing emotions of guilt and anger and sadness and, deep down, fear.

Neither of them fall asleep again after that. Mandy hopes Mickey can’t hear her crying from his room.


	3. coax the cold right out of me

Mickey is going to _kill_ his sister.

It will be messy and painful and he hopes she hates every second of it.

Realistically, he knows he probably looks like an idiot, standing outside this large, intimidating building, fists clenched and seething with anger at thin air. He blames Mandy for that. No, scrap that - he blames Mandy for this _entire_ situation. Including the two over-enthusiastic, grinning red-heads that are now heading his way.

It had started yesterday morning - the morning after Mandy had woken Mickey from his nightmare. Mickey had been embarrassed and angry, mostly at himself, but as usual had been directing that at the nearest person, which happened to be Mandy. He had also felt guilty. The desperate, lost look in Mandy’s eyes had made Mickey feel like a monster, the subdued attempt at conversation she’d made only worsened it. It was hard not to hear her echoing sobs that he’d heard from his bedroom after she’d left playing round his mind.

Refusing to go to therapy after she suggested it was one thing, but telling her he was gay was something completely different altogether. He remembers the cold rush of panic after he’d blurted it out, the familiar roiling in his gut at the sound of the words, the automatic tense of his muscles as if he’d been expecting a hit. But he also remembers her look of shock and then affection, her gentle, teary smile and her hand in the space between them.

He’d been sitting smoking on the edge of his bed, because they still hadn’t got anymore furniture, when she came in.

“I’m going to find myself a job,” she’d said bluntly. “You should too.”

“Already got one.” As soon as he’d decided on moving he’d look into it immediately and found a decent, albeit slightly dodgy garage to work at which suited him just fine.

“What?”

“Well you didn’t think I’d move into this shitty apartment without one, did you?”

Mandy had rolled her eyes in typical Milkovich fashion, arms crossed and frown deeping with annoyance. “Whatever, fuckface.”

“What? Pissed because you thought you were better than me?” He’d bit out when he realised she was still scowling at him and hadn’t left the room.

“No, I’m pissed because you’re a stubborn, fucking asshole who can’t admit when he needs help,” she’d said calmly, which scared Mickey a little because Mandy’s always been the screaming, shouting drama queen type when in an argument. He’d frozen though, realising what she said.

“I’m not fucking talking about this.” He’d opened up to her when his defenses were down in the middle of the night; it wasn’t going to happen again.

“Yeah I can fucking see that, Mickey.” She’d snapped. “That’s the problem: you’re _not_ talking about this.”

Mickey had been staring down at his hands while she was speaking but at that he’d looked up and seen the same betrayed look on her face from the night before. Something in him had faltered and he suddenly didn’t know how to reply around the lump in his throat.

Mandy had left after that.

It wasn’t that Mickey didn’t think therapy was a good idea, he did and though he wasn’t going to say it aloud he was overjoyed that Mandy had decided to go herself. It was that he couldn’t stand the thought of going himself. Because to go to therapy would mean admitting that there was something wrong, which, consequently, would mean admitting that Terry broke him more than he liked to think. The sick feeling in his gut when he thought about it didn’t help either, nor did the voice in the back of his mind that never stopped telling him how much of a coward he was.

In the end it was the memory of the soft, muffled sobs through the wall between their rooms that had done it.

Mandy had come back to the apartment late, eyes slightly red rimmed and looking slightly tipsy, but she hadn’t even acknowledged Mickey until he’d approached her room.

“I’ll go.” He’d said bluntly, staring at the floorboards beneath him.

“What?”

“I found some group therapy shit at this free clinic and I’ll go.” He’d said. He’d decided he couldn’t face sitting in a room where the attention was all on him, maybe if he went to some group therapy session he could pretend he wasn’t there. “It won’t work, though, and I’m only gonna go to a few sessions. But if that’s what you want-”

“Yes.” He had looked up at that and seen Mandy’s blinding smile. He’d looked back down quickly. “Yes, that’s what I want.”

Mickey’d nodded awkwardly. “It’s gonna do fuck all ya’know? So if you’re expecting me to change into some fucking-”

“I’m not, Mickey. Don’t be so negative, anyway. I’m just expecting you to give it a try and see if it helps.”

And now here he stands, outside the building, five minutes late because he’s too much of a pussy to go in and shifting from foot to foot to try and quell his instinct to bolt.

And faced by two terrifyingly cheerful redheads.

“Hi!” Mickey glances up at the speaker to see that it’s the girl, red hair swept back scruffily into a pony-tail and soft green eyes glowing. “Are you new? I don’t think we’ve seen you before.”

She gestures towards the other redhead and Mickey takes that as an invitation to look at him; he’s much taller and has the same soft green eyes as the girl, with freckles splattered haphazardly across his cheeks. Mickey has to fight hard to shove down the guilty feeling in his stomach when he recognises just how attractive he is, in that effortlessly hot way.

“Uh-” He manages, feeling like his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth. He reluctantly drags his eyes off the man and glances back down at the floor. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m new.”

“That’s great! First time going to therapy at all, or not?”

Mickey has to tamp down the urge to tell her and her intrusive questions to fuck off and instead just rolls his eyes. The guy catches him and smirks slightly, looking like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Yeah, first time.”

“Cool! I’m Debbie by the way, this is Ian.” Ian offers him a soft, curious smile and a small wave of his hand, unable to get a word in edgeways as his sister continues to chatter on. “You’d probably better be getting in, didn’t the session start five minutes ago?”

“Yeah, see you, Debs,” the voice sends a small jolt through Mickey’s body as he realises that it’s Ian speaking, his voice smooth and low. Ian starts heading towards the door to the building and seems to be expecting Mickey to follow but he’s still frozen to the ground, every instinct telling him to run. But he doesn’t have an excuse now, he’ll look like an idiot if he turns around and says he isn’t going now.

“You coming?” Ian calls back to him, his head quirked to the side slightly so that strands of red hair fall across his forehead, making Mickey’s stomach twist and turn.

 _Get it together, Mickey_. He lets out a shaky exhale and moves to follow Ian into the building, pressing his sweaty palms together nervously.

“First time’s always the hardest.” Mickey startles and glances up to Ian who’s fallen into step with him. “My sister had to practically drag me in, kicking and screaming. I was pretty stubborn.”

Mickey gives an awkward nod, unsure how he’s supposed to reply to that. Small talk’s never been his thing - or any talk to be perfectly honest - but this guy seems content to keep chattering away as they walk down the corridor.

“Not that sister,” he says jerking his thumb back over his shoulder, “Though she’s just as bad, walks me here every time I’ve got a session. My family’s all like that - siblings are anyway - don’t really realise when to let me make my own decisions, you know? Probably just a bit overprotective I think.”

Mickey thinks of Mandy and her own overprotectiveness, her yelling and screaming, her fierce determination to help him even when he didn’t want the help. _Just a bit overprotective._ He looks back to Ian who’s stopped talking and is now looking back at Mickey with interest as they stop in front of a door.

“Fuck, I hate being late,” Ian mutters as he reaches for the handle.

Mickey’s too busy battling with his stupid nerves to find it within him to agree.

The door opens to a small hall with a group of people seated in a circle and Ian heads in, leaving Mickey stranded in the doorway looking like a deer caught in the headlights. All heads turn to look at him. _Fuck._

“You must be a new member?” A short, fierce looking woman asks.

It’s quite obvious he is, but he doesn’t want to draw any more attention to himself by telling her what a stupid fucking question that is, so opts for a quick nod of the head.

“You can come in and sit down,” She says with an amused smile, that makes Mickey irritated even though it’s not in anyway mocking. “Introduce yourself and if you feel comfortable you can tell us a bit about yourself and why you’re here?”

He drags up a chair, ignoring the way it screeches loudly in the silence of the room. “M’ name’s Mickey,” he says bluntly.

There’s a long silence, as if they’re waiting for him to say more. _Not fucking likely_. Then the small, fierce-looking woman speaks again. “Well, welcome to group therapy, Mickey,” she says, “I’m Alisha.”

“Maybe we could start with an exercise to help get to know you and so you can get to know the rest of the group,” she offers turning away from Mickey to look at the rest of the group, “I’ll go around the circle and ask a question and I’d like you all to answer how you see fit. If you don’t feel you can answer, you’re more than welcome to pass it onto the next person.”

“Try not to interact with others in the group and make sure you listen to what each person’s saying without being judgemental,” Alisha says, sending a warning look around the circle, perfect, black eyebrows raised expectantly against her deep, tanned skin.

_So much for sitting at the back and pretending I’m not here._

“Alright. Sadie, what’s your favourite thing about yourself? A certain personality trait or physical feature that makes you feel positive.”

A stocky, brunette answers. “My hair.”

“Jason, if you had the time to do whatever you wanted right now, what would you choose to do?”

There’s a small pause. “Spend time with my brother.”

This continues round the circle and Mickey’s hardly paying attention until he recognises the next name that’s called.

“Ian, how do you feel about therapy or this session in particular?”

There’s a pause and when Mickey looks up Ian’s got a small frown on his face, as if he’s working out how to answer the question honestly. “Sometimes I don’t like it. But- I know it helps me and it makes my siblings feel better.”

Alisha barely bats an eyelash at this but something in her eyes seems to make Ian duck his head guiltily. _It makes my siblings feel better._ Wasn’t that the only reason he was here?

“Mickey,” Alisha says, and he glances around the circle nervously, “is it your own decision to come to group therapy or did someone else encourage you to do so?”

Pass, he tells himself, _don’t answer the question, just pass it._

“Someone else.” He says instead, not looking up from where his eyes are glued to his clenched fists in his lap, the bold _fuck u-up_ staring right back up at him mockingly.

He exhales a shaky breath as she moves on to another question, lets himself relax ever so slightly from his natural, rigid posture for just a second and tells himself he can’t wait for this session to end.

What confuses him, though, is he’s not sure if that’s the truth.

______

“Mickey?”

He’s almost at the door, following the rest of the group out after the session, when the voice startles him. He turns back to see Alisha looking at him with an inquisitive expression.

“You’re not attending any other therapy, are you?”

“The fuck’s it matter?” He snaps, too quickly and too aggressively, but everyone else has left the room now and it puts Mickey on edge a little; he’s ready to leave now. Alisha barely reacts, just cocks an eyebrow.

“I think you’d benefit from it.” She tells him with a small frown that makes it look like she’s studying him, trying to read who he is as a person.

“Whatever.” Mickey mutters. He shrugs off her intense gaze and turns back to the door. He doesn’t like the feeling she’s giving him that she can see right through him.

“Mickey.”

The urge to turn around and tell her to back the fuck off and leave him alone is strong but he takes a small breath and barks out a: “What?”

The sound of heels clicking across the floor and then she’s standing in front of him, forcing him to make eye contact, a small smile on her face. “You know that to get something out of therapy you have to put a decent amount of work in beforehand, right? You can’t just expect change to happen without facing up to the initial problem.”

 _Initial problem_ , Mickey wants to scoff, _more like initial problems, plural, and way too fucking many to count._ Instead he just tenses up even more and stares at a point just beyond her shoulder, trying to avoid her too-kind gaze.

Alisha sighs, and Mickey feels embarrassed at how sad it sounds - like she thinks he’s some fucking lost cause. She gives a small nod of her head and steps back, allowing Mickey to make a beeline for the door.

“I do individual therapy, too, by the way. Over at the free clinic. If you’re interested.” Mickey hears as he leaves. He’s not. He’s not interested. He’s only doing this because it’s what Mandy wanted.

______

When Mandy brings home a guy that night, Mickey tries so hard to pretend he’s not watching their every move when they’re making out on the new sofa and he’s stood in the kitchen. Tries to tell himself the reason he left his door wide open is because it’s too hot. Tries to act like nothing’s wrong when he hears a glass smash in the next room and darts out of his room and into the kitchen in wild panic. But it’s not too hot; it’s fucking freezing. And there are no bloody bruises painted on Mandy’s face when he enters the kitchen; just a shattered glass and two people giggling like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Mickey knows damn well he’s lying to himself to cover the fact that he cares.

He also knows damn well that Mandy is letting herself be free and have fun.

Mickey doesn’t have a problem with that; he likes this Mandy better than the born-and-bred southside Mandy.

He just wishes he knew how she did it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was wondering the chapter titles (and the title of the fic) are lyrics taken from the song bite by troye sivan - it seemed fitting :)


	4. sickening desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously wasn't feeling it when I wrote this chapter so if it's shitty I apologise :/

Despite an overwhelming urge not to, Mickey goes back to the same therapy session next week. He knows it’s what’s expected after signing up for the first one but after he’d left he’d had his mind set on not going back. Instead, he surprises himself last minute and goes, shoving open the doors, ten minutes late again and to a quiet mutter of “Going to make a habit of being this late are we?” from Alisha. In the end it’s not so bad, especially when he looks up at the end of the session and catches burning green eyes watching him.

Just two days later, Mickey finds himself staring at a small sign outside of his first _real, legal_ job. The anticipation has got his stomach in an iron grip and it’s difficult not to just turn around and go back home. In the end, someone walks out and finds him standing there, eyeing Mickey with a confused expression.

“We are open?” He calls out as he approaches Mickey, “Are you a customer, or do you just make a habit of standing around on street corners, staring into the middle-distance?”

The guy cracks an easy smile as he says it and Mickey feels himself relax ever so slightly. “Nah, I’m uh- I’m here for the job? Mickey Milkovich,” He introduces himself, feeling like he should probably offer a hand to the guy but refraining.

“Ahah! You’re the Southside thug!”

“‘Scuse me?” Mickey growls. It’s not like it isn’t true but the guy says it with a little too much glee for Mickey’s liking.

“Oh- no, no,” The guy lets out an easy laugh that irritates Mickey to his core, “I didn’t mean that in an offensive way or anything - s’just ever since you applied and we did a little background check all we’ve been doing is teasing the shit out of Erica - she’s Southside too, or used to be anyway.”

“Right.”

“I’m Alex by the way,” he offers, with a small smile, “C’mon, I’ll show you in.”

Alex turns back to the garage with a gesture of his hand for Mickey to follow, and he does.

It’s pretty gloomy inside, but there’s still a friendly atmosphere about the place that makes Mickey’s shoulders drop back down slightly. Automatically, Mickey finds himself thinking of all the shit he’d done back on the Southside to earn money and how drastically they compare to this, but that only succeeds in making his stomach roil with disgust because it leads to thinking about his father. He thinks he can still feel the phantom punches landing heavily on his skin.

“Ay, everyone!” Alex calls, “The new guy’s here, play nice.”

Ominous, Mickey thinks, though he knows perfectly well that if they don’t play nice he won’t either. He’s not quite sure how he’s supposed to react when they all stop what they’re doing and come over - he’s never had colleagues or co-workers or whatever before.

Alex slaps a hand on his back firmly in a way that’s probably supposed to be friendly, but it doesn’t stop Mickey flinching and shoving it off, much to Alex’s confusion.

“This is the team,” Alex says with a gesture at the five people who’ve approached, “Save for Joe, he’s the big boss man basically, but he’s in his ‘office’ right now.” He chucks a hand back over his shoulder to gesture at a small shed-like structure in the corner.

Mickey gives a nod, darting his eyes around the group. “That’s Cain,” Alex gestures at a tall dark-skinned man, “Dianna,” a small girl with her hair buzzed, “Kyle,” he points at the guy stood at the back giving Mickey a studying look, “Jake,” a guy with a friendly smile and glasses, “And Erica.” He finishes with the woman standing at the back, her dark hair braided in long plaits down her back. She’s staring at Mickey in a stand-offish, daring way that sends Mickey right back to the Southside.

“Right. The Southside bitch.” Mickey nods, with a raised eyebrow and the hint of a smirk on his lips, expecting the woman to laugh and join in. She doesn’t. A short, uncomfortable silence follows that gives Mickey the idea that maybe he’s done something wrong.

“Ay, dude, that’s probably not the best thing to say to one of your colleagues on your first day of work?” Alex mutters, seemingly attempting to be quiet enough for the rest of the group not to hear but not succeeding. Mickey frowns, chancing another glance at Erica, and sees her dark glare. Apparently he’s upset her. Clearly some people are more ashamed of their Southside backgrounds than others.

“Anyway, this is Mickey,” Alex grins into the awkward silence, making Mickey want to reach out and deck the guy because clearly he doesn’t know when to shut up. The group diffuses naturally after a moment, a few of the guys approaching Mickey and greeting him as they go.

“Nice job, dude,” the girl with the shaved head - Dianna, he recalls - mutters sarcastically as she goes, “She’s gonna be pissed at you _forever_ now.”

Once everyone save for Alex has left Mickey turns to him with a small frown only to find his gaze fixed dreamily on the back of Dianna’s head.

“The fuck’d I do?” He demands quietly, snapping the other man out of his daze. Alex sends him an amused look and places a hand on his shoulder, guiding him over to a car that appears to be under-going work.

“You’re really not good with people skills, huh?” He smiles, ignoring the way Mickey growls and shoves his arm off. “Look, just- Erica’s sorta reserved, y’know? Just give her some time, I’m sure you’ll grow on her.”

Mickey scoffs, thinking of the woman’s dark, angered glare. “Reserved? She looked like she wanted to fucking kill me!”

“Yeah, well, you did call her a ‘Southside bitch’,” Alex points out. He’s ducked down to the side of the car and is fiddling around with a tool.

It’s on the tip of Mickey’s tongue to ask what the hell’s wrong with calling someone that but he pauses when he realises that maybe it _had_ been a little uncalled for. Still.

“Didn’t think she’d be so fucking offended.” He huffs, much to Alex’s amusement. “Stop fucking laughing.”

“Sorry,” Alex mumbles, ceasing his laughter to turn around and shoot Mickey a slightly exasperated look, “Just- You’re not much like anyone I’ve ever met. Look, I’m sure you’ll figure out the way of things around here eventually and until then, stick by me, alright? To avoid poor attempts at social situations?”

Mickey frowns at this guy who… seems to be taking him under his wing? He shakes his head. He can look after himself just fine. “The fuck? I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

“That’s not what I was saying,” Alex laughs easily, as if he doesn’t even notice that he’s offended Mickey, “You’re an odd guy, Mickey.”

Mickey bristles even more at this and clenches a fist to try and keep himself from reacting violently. “And you’re a fucking asshole,” He all but spits.

Alex turns around at his aggressive words. He raises both eyebrows at Mickey from where he’s crouched by the side of the car. “Alright then,” he says, tilts his head to the side and eyes Mickey with something like confusion. He turns back to the car. “Take a look at this.” He gestures for Mickey to come closer without looking back.

 _The fuck is with this guy_ , he thinks as he reluctantly unclenches his fists and takes a step forward to crouch down beside Alex. The other guy begins showing him something complex with the tyre without another word and Mickey watches on with interest. It’s only later, when Mickey’s finished talking to a customer for the first time that he realises how quickly his nerves had dissipated and how comfortable he already feels around the workplace.

______

“Oi! Fuckface!” He’s greeted with as soon as he’s shoved the door to the apartment closed behind him. He’s worn out both emotionally and physically from his first dayat work and wants nothing more than to collapse into bed. It’s barely a seconds notice before Mandy comes careening towards him out of the kitchen, a wild, devilish grin on her face that makes Mickey’s thoughts of his bed falter.

“We’re going _partying_!” Mickey watches her sway slightly on the spot, whole face lit up by her grin. This is Mandy, he thinks, overcome with a terrifying sense of shock because now he _knows_. He knows that he didn’t actually know her before. The subdued, withdrawn version of Mandy that he’d lived with for twenty years of his life wasn’t Mandy at all. This Mandy - the one before him, the one with little crinkles around her eyes from smiling that he’d never known she had, with a loud, boisterous laugh that he’d never even _heard_ before - is who she really is.

“Mickey?”

He pulls himself together, feeling like he’s just made an overwhelming discovery. “Are you already drunk?”

“Nah, just a little tipsy. I was waiting for you!” Mickey moves past her, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

“Right.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” She scowls, forcefully yanking the cigarette from his fingers and taking a drag herself. “We’re going out partying, Mickey!”

“We are, are we?” He asks, eyeing her with amusement. She’s already dressed up and it’s another shocking revelation when he realises that _this_ Mandy doesn’t feel the need to draw on thick, black eyeliner or wear a dress that reveals far too much of her body to look pretty. The small blue dress she’s wearing hugs her body comfortably in a way that’s still reasonably revealing, but no longer _slutty_.

“Yep. You never fucking leave the house unless it’s to go to the shops, work or those therapy sessions, so I’ve taken it upon myself, as your loving sister, to do whatever it takes to drag you out of here.” She smiles innocently, taking another drag on his cigarette. “If that means killing you and dragging your corpse out onto the landing, then fine.”

Mickey snorts unattractively at the image. “Over my dead body,” he cracks, earning himself a loud cackle of laughter from Mandy.

“That’s the point.” She nods. She hands him back the cigarette. “C’mon it’ll be fun! Plus I need to get laid, and so do you.”

Mickey tenses, immediately drawing Mandy’s watchful gaze, but he can’t help it. They haven’t broached the subject of his sexuality since that night and he really doesn’t want to now. “Go out yourself then, I’m staying here.”

“Oh come on! I can’t go by myself, asshole.”

“Then don’t, I don’t give a fuck.” _Liar_.

Mandy stares at him in annoyance. “Why are you being difficult? Just a few hours, Mickey, come on,” She pleads.

“Fucking hell, I said no, alright!” Mandy takes a small step back, away from him. It feels like a punch in the gut.

“Fine. I’ll go by myself, douchebag.” She looks more angry than anything else, but her dejected tone still makes Mickey pause.

“You can’t go by yourself, Mandy,” he says quietly.

“Why the fuck not? You just suggested it, Mickey!” She cries, hands waving in exasperation.

Mickey thinks of his sister, alone in a club with creeps around every corner and can’t stop the sick feeling in his stomach. “Just- I just- I’ll fucking come, alright? I’ll come.”

Mandy stares at him. “Jesus fucking christ, make up your mind,” she mutters.

“Only an hour or so, though, alright?” He says, already regretting the decision because he knows it’s definitely going to be a lot longer than an hour.

“Sure thing, Mickey,” Mandy’s grinning again and Mickey rolls his eyes in return. Maybe this whole ordeal will be worth it just to see his sister smile like that again.

______

An hour later and Mickey’s sat at the bar in a small club, nursing a beer, a watchful gaze on Mandy’s dancing figure. Mickey’s never been the dancing type, not only because it felt too gay, but also because it required letting himself relax and loosen up - something that he’s only just learning to do. Mandy, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. He watches as she sways her hips along to the rhythm, whole body moving with the freedom of it under the dizzying, neon lights. He envies his sister and her ability to let go. Envies the way she can just jump up, unafraid, and be swept off into a crowd of strangers. Sometimes though, he thinks maybe she lets go too much, gets swept off into the crowd of strangers and forgets where the shore is, letting the waves toss her around until she’s almost drowning. Maybe it helps her forget. Maybe it would help Mickey forget too. Still, he stays with two feet planted stubbornly on the shore, holding himself back.

Mandy’s got her arm hooked around someone now, and Mickey immediately sits up, alert. The man’s tall and it looks like he’s practically holding Mandy’s weight up, leaning down to say something in his ear. Mandy appears to say something back, chucking a hand over her shoulder to gesture to where Mickey’s sat, and they both turn so Mickey can see the man’s face clearly. Even from a distance and in the dancing neon lights, Mickey can see who it is. He doesn’t know how he didn’t recognise the red hair sooner.

“Mickey?” Ian yells much too loudly over the music as they approach. Mickey’s not really listening - too focused on the way Ian’s t-shirt clings to his torso teasingly, the way his hair is gelled back but a strand has fallen free, the way his jeans show off his ass in a way that practically has his mouth-watering. When Mickey drags his eyes back up to Ian’s face, the other man is looking him over in much the same way. Mickey’s stomach jolts. But it still doesn’t explain the way his sister’s hanging off his arm.

“Hey, Mickey,” his sister slurs slightly from where she’s clinging to Ian’s arm, “Ian, this’s my brother Mickey.”

“Yeah, we’ve met,” Mickey says, “You ready to go home yet or do ya wanna spend time with your new boyfriend here?”

Mandy stares at him like he’s gone crazy before collapsing against Ian’s side with laughter. She always had been a slightly hysterical drunk. Mickey glances at Ian, who’s blushing and shaking his head.

“Ah- no- I don’t- that’s not-” The redhead struggles clumsily with the words.

“Whatever, man, ‘s none of my fuckin’ business anyway- Well, it is if you’re fuckin’ my sister but I’m gonna go right right ahead and assume that you aren’t, then.”

Ian nods his head very vigorously - obviously Mandy’s not the only one who’s drunk.

“He’s gay, you dumbass!” Mandy cackles. Obviously. Mickey tenses slightly at the blatant way she says it, as if she wants the whole world to know. Ian notices and furrows his eyebrows slightly.

“Right.”

“‘S that a problem?” Ian slurs slightly, moving a step closer so that he’s towering over where Mickey’s still sat in his seat. Mickey tenses further, hating the way he feels drawn in by the smell of the other man so close to him. He opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

“No.” It’s Mandy’s voice, and Mickey feels a wave of gratitude for her. “No it’s fine. Mickey doesn’t mind at all, do you?” She turns to Mickey, her voice softer and her face serious.

“No.” Mickey manages to rasp out, dropping his eyes back to the drink in his hand.

“Good,” Ian says, apparently satisfied with Mickey’s answer, and steps back away from him with a clumsy, drunk smile on his face. Mickey misses the heat of his body so close. “Are you two siblings, then?” He asks, changing the subject dramatically and squinting at Mandy who giggles at him. “You look very similar, same eyes.”

Mandy nods and starts rambling on about what the colour of your eyes says about you as a person and Mickey drowns it out as they both drop down into the seats next to him, Ian’s leg a burning heat pressed against his side. Mickey drinks his way through their conversation, impatiently waiting to go home because he doesn’t think he can handle the inexplicable pull he feels towards Ian any longer and because he doesn’t want to get involved in their dumbass, drunken conversation. He tries hard to ignore the heated glances Ian’s sending him, even though he knows damn sure he’s probably looking at him in the exact same way.

The conversation’s interrupted by a shrill ringing from Ian’s pocket. Mickey watches him fumble with it as he answers.

“Hi?” Ian shouts into the speaker over the loud music, covering his other ear.

Mickey can’t hear the voice on the other end of the line but apparently it’s not good news because Ian’s face falls quickly.

“At a club,” the redhead mutters, almost drowned out by the music. “I went out with some friends from work, fucking hell, Fiona.”

There’s a long pause. Mickey glances at Mandy who’s staring blankly into her drink, apparently not listening to the conversation.

“No- Well yes, but that’s irrelevant, I’m fucking twenty years old, I don’t fucking need you to be on my ass twenty four fucking seven!”

There’s another pause, but this time with discernible shouting on the other end of the phone.

“Fuck off, Fiona!” Ian yells into the phone before hanging up and slamming the phone down on the bar in front of them with notable finality. He glances at Mickey and Mandy and flushes slightly before reaching for his drink and downing it.

“Guessin’ that’s not good news, huh?” Mickey laughs, eyeing the way Ian’s eyebrows are furrowed in anger. Ian just shakes his head.

“I need another drink.”

______

Apparently Ian is a lightweight, as became clear to Mickey when he started serenading him and Mandy with ‘Living on a Prayer’ about two drinks later. Now he has his hands full with a drowsy, drunk sister and an utterly wasted redhead.

“Cause we gotta hold on to what we got,” Ian’s still mumbling as Mickey practically carries him out of the bar, trying not to breathe in the intoxicating smell of Ian. Mandy’s attached to his other arm and is bopping her head along to Ian’s tune, though completely out of time.

“Ay, you gonna get back home ok?” Mickey asks the other man. _When the fuck did I turn into a babysitter,_ he wonders, though for some reason he hardly feels irritated, despite the fact that Ian might as well be a stranger. Ian’s nodding his head, disorientated.

“Really?”

“Yeah, yeah I only live a few blocks that way,” Ian mumbles, waving a hand vaguely back at the bar they just left.

“You live in the fuckin’ bar?” Mickey snorts, trying not to find it too endearing as Ian stumbles around a little, giving a shake of his head.

“No, no, that way,” he says, waving his hand in the opposite direction. Somehow it doesn’t help with Mickey’s disbelief.

“Didn’t you say you were with some friends from work? You ditch them?”

“Yeah. They’re boring anyway,” Ian mumbles, tightening his grip on Mickey and leaning down slightly to bury his head in his shoulder. Mickey doesn’t know if he wants to shove him off or pull him closer.

“Jesus, you’re fuckin’ wasted man. Look, I’ll walk you back and we can drop Mandy off on the way,” he glances at his sister, whose head is resting on his shoulder. He’s not even sure why he’s offering to walk Ian home - he’d never even consider it if it were anyone else - but he doubts either Mandy or Ian will remember it in the morning so it’s irrelevant.

“You’ll walk me home?” Ian asks, a small, dopey grin settling on his face. “Like a date?”

Mickey tenses, feeling his pulse thudding loudly in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the city. Some voice in his head that sounds scarily like his dad is screaming at him to push Ian off of him, shove him to the ground and deliver several kicks to his skull. What must people think? He’s walking down the street with a man practically hanging off his body. Mickey swallows against the rising bile.

He opens his mouth, wanting to answer Ian but terrified that when he speaks it’ll be with his father’s voice and instead of laughing and telling Ian he must be really drunk, he’ll scream and yell, call him a faggot and tell him to fuck off. Ian beats him to it.

“Sorry,” Ian says so quietly that it’s almost lost on the wind, “I didn’t mean- That was- Sorry.”

“S’ok.” Mickey manages. Ian shakes his head slightly, leaning into Mickey as they walk.

Mickey drops Mandy at their apartment block when they get there. She’s practically dead on her feet at this point and mumbles a soft goodbye to Ian before disappearing into the apartment. Mickey and Ian continue in companionable silence after that, Ian directing Mickey hazily to his house, one arm tight around his waist to keep from stumbling around. Mickey tries not to think about how much he likes the feel of his arm there.

“Lip and Fiona’re gonna be pissed,” Ian mumbles softly after a few minutes, seeming to be almost talking to himself, preparing himself for their wrath.

“Boyfriend?” Mickey’s stomach twists.

“Who? Lip?” Ian giggles and Mickey tries not to look to entranced by the way his whole face lights up. “No, they’re my siblings.”

“Oh.” That makes him look stupid.

Ian huffs slightly, leaning in to Mickey’s side and Mickey can’t help but feel glad that he probably won’t remember this in the morning. He likes the feel of Ian pressed against his side a little too much.

“‘M not supposed to drink on my meds.”

Mickey glances at Ian, who seems to be talking aloud to himself still, watches his face fall slightly.

“On your meds?” He echoes, trying not to be intrusive but at the same time there’s something about Ian that makes him want to know more, to know _everything_. Mickey swallows that thought down, doesn’t want to think too hard on it. Besides Ian’s pretty wasted and probably wouldn’t even notice if Mickey was too intrusive.

“Yeah they get me drunk really fuckin’ quick, like- I barely drank that much, and still - here I am,” Ian waves a hand at himself clumsily in a way that’s bordering on self-deprecating. He seems to be lost in his own thoughts.

“Right.” It doesn’t answer Mickey’s question in the slightest but at least now he knows why Ian seems so out of it.

Ian points out the next street they walk past as his and they turn down it, stopping outside his house under the warm streetlight. Mickey reluctantly disentangles Ian’s arm from around his waist and takes a step back from the other man.

“See ya around, Gallagher,” he says, willing his lips not to curve up into a smile at the sight of Ian standing there, bathed perfectly in the glow of the street light. He sets off without another word down the street before he can say anything stupid.

“Wait-” Ian calls, followed by the sound of footsteps and a hand grabbing his arm, “Mick-” He cuts himself off by slamming his lips clumsily against Mickey’s, one hand coming up to grab Mickey’s shoulder.

Mickey’s brain shuts down for a second, too lost in the taste of alcohol on the other man’s lips and the unexpectedness of it but it jumpstarts an instant later when Ian’s other hand settles firmly on his hip, dragging their bodies flush together. Mickey tears himself away.

“What the fuck?!” He yells, stumbling a few steps away from Ian, away from the almost magnetic _pull_ of him. His question goes unanswered, the only sound Ian’s heavy panting in the darkness. Mickey can still feel the burning heat from where Ian had touched him, but now it’s mingled with the feel of punches landing on his skin, the barrel of a gun against his skull, hands around his throat.

“No.” Mickey manages but trying to talk around the hands squeezing at his throat and lungs feels like forcing words over sandpaper. “No. No- I’m not- You can’t just fucking do that.”

“You can’t…” Mickey stops himself, trying to suck air into his lungs. He looks up at Ian, only the only person he sees before him is his _dad_ ; his murderous glare, clenched fists, cruel snarl. He tries not to let his fear paint its way across his face.

“Sorry- Sorry, Mickey, I’m so fucking sorry,” and suddenly his dad’s Ian again and he looks horrified with himself, his expression darkening “I don’t know why I- Christ, I’m so fucking drunk, I’m sorry, that’s not an excuse but- but I didn’t- I mean, I shouldn’t have done that.” Ian rambles, approaching Mickey warily but Mickey continues to back away.

“I’m gonna go,” Mickey tells him, not meaning for it to sound as broken as it does but he’s trembling and shuddering and he doesn’t think he can hold himself together much longer. He knows himself well enough to know that if he stays any longer Ian will probably end up an unconscious body on the pavement and Mickey will walk away content, bloody knuckles and all. He hates that that’s who he is.

Mickey turns away. Ian snatches at his arm once more, only this time Mickey yanks it away, growling out a firm: “Don’t.” Ashamed green eyes meet his blue ones and he turns back down the street, not looking back until he’s reached the end and he can see Ian’s silhouette stood still under the lamppost, staring back at Mickey.

When he turns the corner, out of sight of Ian, he all but collapses against the brick wall there, digging his palms into his eyes to stop the burning of the tears. He doesn’t know why he’s crying, he can't even remember the last time he did. He knows it’s not because of the memory of his dad, or the way he acted, or even how he shoved Ian off when he kissed him. He hadn’t even wanted to push the other man away, he’d wanted to pull him closer, to let Ian deepen the kiss. He heaves a breath of air, too close to a sob for Mickey’s liking.

He’s crying because he _wanted_ it.


End file.
